Birthdays Are Overrated
by Chibi StarLyte
Summary: Five times John didn't celebrate his birthday, and one time he did. Fill for the Sherlock kink meme.


This is a fill for the following prompt on the Sherlock kink meme:

**The only time John remembers celebrating his birthday was in the army. Maybe a 5 times John didn't celebrate it and the 1 time he did?**

I posted the unbeta'd version on the kink meme itself.

Many thanks to my wonderful friend and beta Akiame9. She is the greatest. This fic still has not been Brit-picked, however, so feel free to tell me about any flaws/errors that need to be fixed!

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock. I just enjoy adding sprinklings of angst to an already angst-filled show.

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1.

Birthdays were always fun in primary school.

Whenever one of his classmates celebrated a birthday, his or her parents would send in little cakes or some other treat for the entire class to share. "Happy Birthday" would be sung, and their teacher would give them twenty minutes of extra time to eat their desserts, to laugh and play as kids are wont to do, before returning to their lessons for the day. John liked birthdays the most, because hey, what child didn't love free cake?

When John's birthday came around, however, no one ever knew about it. He never said a peep about it, never brought in little cakes or anything. After all, why ask his mum for them when they couldn't afford ingredients to bake them, all their money going to support his father's binge drinking? And it wasn't like his birthday was ever acknowledged at home—no presents, no cake or candle-blowing—so why should school be any different?

So John just settled for enjoying everyone else's birthdays. The cakes were always good.

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2.

People always made such a big deal about turning eighteen. It was the age of alcoholic freedom, in which one could legally purchase drinks without any parental consent or all that malarkey. Common celebrations included nights out at the pub or bar, getting truly pissed off one's arse and suffering the mother of all hangovers come morning.

Having dealt with that kind of crap all his life, though more on the behalf of his father and now his sister, John wanted nothing to do with it when it was his turn.

Sure, he'd go out with the guys from his rugby team if they invited him, but his own eighteenth birthday came and went just like any normal day. No free round of birthday beers courtesy of his mates, no complimentary shots of God-knows-what provided by a bartender who happened to think he was rather good-looking.

In fact, he never even touched a beer until well after he turned twenty, with only medical textbooks to keep him company in his lonely dorm room. He tried to ignore the noise of the birthday party happening in the room just next door.

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3.

Since when had it been a societal rule that people were supposed to enjoy their birthdays?

It seemed everyone was under the assumption that birthdays were to be treated as some kind of sacred holiday like Easter or Christmas. People requested their special day off work. Expected gifts from close friends and relatives, and well-wishes from acquaintances. Saw fit to party like it's 1999 just because they'd survived another year in their lives.

It was a good thing John didn't really believe in any of that, because he spent his twenty-second birthday in the A&E.

Two hours he'd been slouched in his chair in the waiting room, just twiddling his thumbs and watching other patients come and go. This was the third time this month Harry had been in the hospital—alcohol poisoning again, shocker she wasn't dead yet—and the third time John had been pulled from his studies to await the doctor's reports about his sister's condition. The receptionist didn't say anything regarding the significance of the day when he flashed his ID to confirm that he was Harry's next of kin, even though his date of birth was clearly printed on the card. John didn't know if she neglected to acknowledge it because she simply didn't notice, or she saw fit to keep the reminder to herself considering the unfortunate reason he was here in the first place. He found that he didn't care either way.

"Happy birthday to me," he told himself sarcastically as the doctor approached, to deliver the news about Harry and go over options for treatment.

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4.

John was tired.

Tired, no, that wasn't the right word. Exhausted, knackered, at the end of his rope, about to keel over. Those were more accurate descriptions.

He almost had to pry his eyes open with clothespins to keep himself from falling asleep as he sat at a cluttered desk to complete some paperwork. Seventeen hours straight of operations did that to a man. One of the squads came across a minefield, and many paid for the mistake with their lives. Of the eleven people who were lucky enough to come back alive, John tended to six of them himself. Four were in recovery now. Two died on the operating table.

Even if John wanted to cry…even if he allowed that soldier's mask to slip for a moment, he was just too damn tired to muster the energy to shed even a single tear.

It wasn't until he forced his stiff, leaden fingers to pick up a pencil and write the date on his reports that he realized it was his birthday.

At least he lived to see another year, he thought bitterly as he wrote "deceased" into the little box on the paper in front of him.

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5.

It was John's first day off in over a week. They were shorthanded at the surgery, so he'd been working double shifts to help out while trying to keep up with Sherlock's crazy antics in the meantime, which was always a challenge in and of itself. Now that he had a day of freedom, he resolved to just have a lie-in. Curl up on the sofa in a blanket and his pyjamas, inhale tea and biscuits, and flip through crap telly as he pleased.

A perfectly acceptable way to spend his birthday.

When he finally decided to roll out of bed at half nine, he was stopped short by a chime from his phone on the bedside table.

_Bart's. Come immediately. SH_

Letting out a sigh that wasn't as annoyed as it should have been, John opened up his wardrobe and pulled out some clean clothes for the day. He couldn't say no to Sherlock, and frankly, he didn't think chasing a criminal or two was too bad of a way to spend his birthday.

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+1

"Happy birthday, Doctor Watson!"

John stopped in his tracks at the entrance of the medical tent, completely unprepared for the declaration as well as the scene that came with it. The three of his patients that were actually conscious at the time plus five of the other doctors and nurses were all staring at him, holding little folded pieces of paper—makeshift birthday cards, it turned out. One of the nurses, a pretty red-headed one with bright green eyes, stepped forward and handed him a small cake with a single candle poked through the frosting.

"It's not much," she said with a shy smile, "but we all wanted to wish you happy birthday."

Muttering an embarrassed, "Thanks," John took the cake and blew out the candle. Everyone clapped lightly, so as not to wake the other patients. After making his rounds, he retreated to his sleeping quarters with his cake and cards in tow.

_Happy birthday, Dr. Watson. Hope it's a good one._

_G. Williams_

_It's always a pleasure working with you, John. Happy birthday._

_Love,_

_Shirley Smith_

_Happy birthday, kid. You're doing fine._

_Capt. Logan Wellington_

_If it wasn't for you, doc, I wouldn't be here. Thanks, and happy birthday._

_Nate_

John had to set his fork down for a moment, that last card's contents choking him up a bit. He had to swallow down the sob that threatened to escape, blink back the tears that begged to make themselves known just this once. At least they were happy tears.

Suddenly, John didn't think his birthday was so bad after all.

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This was the first 5+1 fic I've ever written. How did I do?

Until next time,  
Chibi


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